


Ghosts of Old

by tiltedsyllogism



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ghosts, Gothic, M/M, Pining, Poetry, Remix, Wits On Tap Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 02:28:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10777560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiltedsyllogism/pseuds/tiltedsyllogism
Summary: Investigating the haunting of an old country house, Sherlock is visited by ghosts that feel all too real.





	Ghosts of Old

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trickybonmot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickybonmot/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Case of the Two Apparitions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6951829) by [trickybonmot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickybonmot/pseuds/trickybonmot). 



> Written for Wits on Tap 2017, this remix of Trickybonmot's fabulous [The Case of the Two Apparitions](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6951829) leans heavily on Keats' [La Belle Dame Sans Merci](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/resources/learning/core-poems/detail/44475) for rhythm and structure.

O what afflicts th’ detective stern,  
Pellucid in his reasoning,  
who does to paths of solitude  
Best suited seem?

I see him pale, fraught with woe,  
Though London-town he has resumed.  
He is returned, yet not returned,  
His heart agloom.

I met a lady at the gates  
Of her ancestral crumbling home –  
She entreated me to find the ghosts  
Who traipsed the gloam.

Amidst the autumn witherings –  
a wasted tow’r, decaying fold –  
I came upon the bundled leaves  
Of a love gone cold.

Those longings lingered in my mind  
As I lay ‘pon my lonesome bed  
And, wistful, thought of chances lost –  
And words unsaid.

Though tenebrous, the vapor of  
Those lovelorn notes into us bled,  
And made the most of stolen heat  
Upon my bed.

His spirit baptized living flesh  
And drove my lover, heedless, on.  
His breath was cold against my ear –  
And then was gone.

The newborn morning chased away  
These fevered spirits, like the dew.  
False fey unmask’d, we took our leave  
And homeward drew.

But, ah! the wish that comes unbid  
To be again at his command,  
Without another’s gasping ghost  
To drive his hand.


End file.
